From a Thousand Feet
by victoria6
Summary: A boy and his plane. Harms musings at a thousand feet.


From a thousand feet  
By: Victoria  
Rating: PG  
Summery: Harm's musing's from a thousand feet (aka: a boy and his plane)  
Song: Tears of Pearls, by Savage Garden

AN: Has anyone ever noticed that Harm's Stearman doesn't have a N number (tail number)…adendum, it does, but I can't read it! Lol, it's on the dash, but I can't make my VCR freeze and track well enough to read it. So I made one up. It's N42630,(and when you go and look that up, you'll find that I didn't make it up and it belongs to a Piper Cub. If you don't know when calling for clearance 'n stuff you don't have to use but the last three numbers (in this case 630) after the tower has acknowledged you, I will, however, on occasion use the full N number. I spend way too much time at the airport. G> .

FROM A THOUSAND FEET

"This is Stearman November 42630 requesting permission to take off crosswind, 270 overhead departure towards Bear Creek."

"Stearman 630 hold short of runway 28R at Echo, landing traffic one mile final." The tower told him and rattled off directions to another pilot.

"Stearman 630 holding short."

"Stearman 630 do you want the right runway?"

"Sure why not." Harm responded.

"Stearman 630 make right traffic with turnout over the golf coarse for Bear Creek."

"Right downwind, 630." Harm cut off the mike as he skipped and bounced the Stearman into the air.

Harm swooped low over the golf course and swanned vertical into the air with a series of barrel rolls…yeah, so it was severe breach of theFARs and it was an instant loss of his license if he was reported, but sometimes even he needed to play, and he was alone in the pattern.

"Damn Stearman, I outta write you a traffic ticket."

"There's a reason we're called the yellow peril. I have made it my personal duty to keep you guys on the ground up on your toes. Tower, Stearman 630 requesting frequency change."

"630 Frequence change approved."

"630. See ya later."

It wasseveral miles to the Bear Creek practice box, and he would be cutting it close on the fuel, since he had enough to get about an hour of flight time in, but right now, all he wanted to do was fly.

"All these mixed emotions  
we keep locked away like stolen pearls  
Stolen pearl devotions we  
keep locked away from all the world

We twist and turn where angels burn  
Like fallen soldiers we will learn  
Once forgotten, twice removed  
Love will be the death...  
The death of you"

Harm sang softly into the headset to no one, listening to it reverberate back into his ears. He trailed off, was that a storm cloud? There had been nothing in the ATIS when he took off. He tuned to the ATIS frequency and turned up the volume.

"…New Haven information Quebec. Time 2354 Zulu. Wind 290 15. Visibility 10. Sky conditions 15 thousand patchy. Temperature 17. Dewpoint 12. Altimeter 3006. Localizer DME runways 28R and 28L in use. Advise on initial contact you have information Quebec."

Harm didn't feel up to keeping company with a recording so he switched his Comm frequency to traffic as he began his ascent to one thousand feet.

The wind blew cold and clear in his face, the crosswind blowing his exhaust back into his face as he performed a power-off stall…wouldn't it suck if the plane didn't restart? He suddenly asked himself, and that was the last of that. Harm barrel rolled and leveled off, banked and leveled off, He raised his wing to look for traffic and spotting none he itched to perform loop-de-loops…and complied. Harm soared up vertically, hammer-headed into a dive and turned around back toward the airfield.

At a thousand feet the air was clear and cold, from a thousand feet all his worries faded away like the buildings beneath him in the dusk. The sky was a brilliant red and purple and the clouds whisked above his head, their moisture stinging his face. Angels resided in those clouds, thousands of angels at a thousand feet. Resting eternally in god's kingdom…was there really such a thing? If there were, wouldn't god object to the thousands of planes that flew through his kingdoms misty floor everyday? Idle thoughts were making his head spin. Harm involuntarily lowered his altitude so that he was flying below the clouds, and not in them.

The day all around him was murky and cool, the visibility ceiling was low, he knew, and he also knew he was in a residential area, and flying below one thousand feet, but nothing was going to keep him on the ground today.

From one thousand feet his troubles faded away, there was no Mic, there was no JAG, and there was no Mac, no fights, no trials, and no investigations. Just him and his plane. He listened to the engines steady thwump thwumping, it was a sound, unique to this plane, his plane from here he had no worries, he knew from his pre-flight and listening to the engine that it would need to be tuned, and he had his annual coming up fast. He needed to touch up the chipping paint on the wings, and clear the bugs from the wings leading edges, and wax the old wood prop to return it's shine…the last person the do so had been Mac…no, he wasn't going to think about her. Maybe tonight he would sleep in his hanger. The ratty grease covered apartment-sized couch in the corner, and a book on the wall would do nicely, and tomorrow he could tinker, clean and play all he wanted, it was a Saturday after all. No one needed him on a Saturday…not even…"NO!" He shouted to himself, it reverberated back into his ears through the mike twelve times louder, causing him to cringe. He wasn't going to think about her!

"…New Haven information Romeo. Time 2432 Zulu. Wind 290 15. Visibility 10. Sky conditions 12 thousand broken. Temperature 16. Dewpoint 11. Altimeter 3006. Localizer DME runways 28R and 28L in use. Advise on initial contact you have information Romeo."

Harm dialed back into the tower frequency and pressed the red push-to-talk. "New Haven. Stearman November 42630 is one mile out over Lake Bosse requesting permission to land 28R with information Romeo."

"Roger 630, do you want final?"

"That'll work." Harm told the controller cheerfully, secretly disappointed that he couldn't circle the airport once or twice. He kicked out on the left rudder and slipped, dumping lift like crazy until he was down to just below traffic altitude, a half mile out as he turned base to final.

"Stearman, make traffic for the right. Incoming 150 on a straight-in for 28Left."

"Roger tower. I have him in sight." A minute later he stalled, flared out and touched ground with a mild squeak as his tires struck the clean asphalt. Right on the numbers. Harm congratulated himself as he taxied down, turned off, and came to rest. "Stearman 630 is clear of active at taxiway Echo requesting permission to proceed to West T's."

"Granted 630. Beautiful landing."

"Thank-you tower." He taxied the remainder of the way to his hanger before shutting down completely and turning the large plane around and pulled it inside. He placed the chocks in front of the wheels and post flighted the engine briefly. He would call for the fuel truck in the morning. He headed for the sixty's style orange and yellow flowered couch and was about to stretch out when his cell phone rang. Reluctantly he knew he had to answer it.

"I'll be right there." He hung up. The waxing and painting and cleaning would have to wait for another day. He patted Sarah's fuselage with a muttered "I'm sorry girl." And dragged the heavy aluminum doors shut.

Finish

2001


End file.
